THE MISSING MEERSCHAUM
by SSDfan22
Summary: The Postables become consulting sleuths to find a missing, and priceless, artifact.
1. Chapter 1

SEATTLE

January 14

The wind that sliced into Puget Sound was born in the Gulf of Alaska. It was icy and mean. Cleverly skirting the rocky north shoreline, it rushed straight into the bay, swirling about the harbor and nudging relentlessly at docked freighters and waiting ferries until they bobbed like corks. Then it forced its way into the city, slithering along streets and coiling in the deeper shadows. It hesitated for a moment, then moaned despair at an icicle moon staring down at Seattle from a cloudless sky. The sudden lull was a ruse. As cunning as a cobra, the wind changed direction suddenly, gusting through Pike's Place and shaking the skeletons of trees. Discarded wrappers and desiccated leaves from last autumn rustled as the wind passed, adding to the bitter chorus of a winter night. The wind was a predator with one simple intention, spit winter's frigid venom into the faces of the city's denizens.

Shane McInerney stepped briskly over the bricks of Pioneer Market, hunching her shoulder against the wind's bite. The young woman pulled her head deeper into the raised collar of an ankle length Peacoat, grousing under her breath. Her mane of blonde hair was suddenly pulled free by the wind and whipped forward like a ship's pennant, pointing to the entrance of a small shop just ahead. As she entered a narrow pedestrian street between buildings, her heeled boots echoed hollowly off the stone walls. Then she sighed as she stepped into the welcoming glow of the shop's lantern hanging above its door.

A new friend was watching her approach. A silver Siamese with startling blue eyes was perched atop a five foot tall owl carved from the torso of a Douglas Fir. The owl was the iconic symbol for _Turn The Page – Books and Notions._

"Hello Peanut," she said softly, touching the cat with her index finger. The cat responded with a sound that could have meant "Meow" or "Sup?" in Siamese.

Shivering against the wind, Shane pushed against the carved brass handle of the shop's door. The cat had been waiting for that very moment, and deftly made the leap to Shane's shoulder. The wind had been waiting for that moment too, and as the door was opened, it gusted, intent on rushing in ahead of Shane. With the speed and agility that a green beret would have proud of, the blue eyed blonde stepped through the door and grasped the intricately carved handle on the inside while turning her body at the same time. In one smooth motion, she and the cat denied the wind's strike and stepped into warmth. Left outside, the wind moaned defeat and returned to the street, resuming its search for the weak and unaware.

Three quick steps and Shane found a tall stool at the end of a very old roll-top desk. Hooking the heel of a boot over a rung, she settled long legs into a posture that resembled a resting flamingo, if the flamingo were blonde and wearing a peacoat. She folded her hands in her lap and watched the candle flame on the desk beside her as it guttered in response to her sudden arrival. Peanut pushed her nose into the side of Shane's head to say thank you for the ride, then casually jumped to the top of the desk. The cat sat and started cleaning the back of one paw.

The whiskered old man sitting at the desk had watched her entrance with amusement. His gray eyes twinkled as he studied her odd pose on what had quickly become her favorite stool. "You're late," he said. He carefully closed the very large volume of parchments he had been working in and turned to face her. Picking up a thick, white candle and holder from the top of the desk, he set it on the heavy book. The flame bent sharply to one side, then flared once before settling back to a slow, sinuous waver.

Shane had only been in Seattle for a week – a sad week away from Oliver – but had spent a great deal of her time here in Josiah's shop. Enough time that Peanut had adopted her as family. In that short time she had learned a great deal about the man, his idiosyncrasies, and his shop. Example: she was the only person in Seattle who knew that the ornate pewter candle holder he had just moved was a relic that hailed from the days long before Arthur walked the soil of England and pulled swords from stones. What she didn't yet know was how Josiah had gotten his hands on what was clearly an archeological treasure. Leaning forward, she let a finger trace the tightly curving pewter bowl and handle as if to read the braille of its history.

"I know I'm late, I'm sorry. But I needed some phone time with my husband. Are you going to tell me the story of this piece tonight, Josiah?"

The man smiled. Not for the first time in the last week, she was reminded of Carroll's Cheshire Cat. The man pointedly ignored the question.

"You have thing about candles, don't you?" she asked.

In response, the candle did what candles do and flickered, painting a warm glow along the side of the man's face. He was grinning now, his old face creased by time. "Electric lights are sterile, and yes, I do prefer candles. Always have. Technology is clinical and cold while candles are warm and hold stories and the stuff of legend."

Shane nodded politely, and touched the heavy leather binding of the volume he had just closed. Oliver would have loved this place, she thought. His antipathy for technology would have endeared him to Josiah. "Did you learn anything from the Doyle Journals?" she asked, hopeful that she could go home soon.

The man blinked at her and sighed. The wavering circles of light cast by the candle was the only light in the shop and it created a blanket of shadow that stretched in every direction. Dozens of darkened bookshelves formed hidden rows behind them, shapes of darkness painted against darkness.

"Sadly, no. Barrie from the Seattle Museum will be here tomorrow. He is hoping that you and your Postable friends will have clearance from the Postal Service by then to pursue his case."

"Why did he request the staff from the Denver DLO?" she asked again. She already knew, but liked to hear it.

The old man laughed at her façade, seeing it for what it was. "As I have already told you, Oliver O'Toole and his Postables have garnered a reputation, even among sleuths, as being the best there are. Barrie desperately needs to find the missing antique, and since it is priceless, he is willing to pay all your salaries while you look for it. Governor Thorne agrees, that's why he contacted the Postmaster General directly."

"Yeah," Shane said. "Not the most efficient way to deal with bureaucracy. I could have hacked our permissions three days ago and be home with my husband now."


	2. Chapter 2

2 |

DENVER

January 14

The sky was spitting snow at Denver. Not fluffy, beautiful flakes, the small irritating bits that only manage to make streets slick and driver's cautious. It was the leading edge of a storm system that stretched all the way to the Pacific and was just beginning to crest the Rockies. The spits were the storm system's hesitation as paused to leer down at the fragile abodes of Man. As the storm rose above the flanks of mountains, the wind grew in strength, becoming the beast coming out of its lair, hungry.

Oliver O'Toole frowned through the windshield of the Jaguar, but not at the spits of snow. The tires of the Jaguar crunched on the snowy street as it idled slowly though the rundown part of Denver, the city that the Mayor and travel bloggers never talk about. This was The Pit.

"It should be just ahead," Norman said from the back seat.

"What is this place called?" Oliver asked.

"The Dark Angel Tavern. Sounds warm and comforting, doesn't it?"

"Rita?"

"Yes Oliver."

"What was the clue Shane sent us? Just to refresh my memory."

Rita pulled her phone and thumbed her way to the text message they had received from Shane an hour ago. "Ah, here it is," she said. "She says that she found an old newspaper article in the Seattle Times about a man named Bertram Liddy who had lost a fortune during the Prohibition. She said, "there is a photo of the man and he has the Meerschaum in his vest pocket." Then she added that she went on-line to track him down." Oliver groaned but said nothing. "She traced Liddy to Denver where he opened several Taverns in the middle 1930s. One of those has to be in operation still because someone is paying the property taxes on the place. It is called the Dark Angel and is," Rita paused and looked out the windshield. "Ugh. Somewhere around here." She leaned forward and stared. "There. Oh my. I remember this place now."

"You've been here before?" Oliver asked.

The brunette shrugged. "I entered a poker tournament here a couple of years back. Before Norman and I were married."

Oliver looked in the rear-view mirror at Norman. "Is she any good at poker?"

The man smiled. "You know that new house Rita and I just bought?" Oliver nodded. "There you go."

The Jaguar glided to the curb and stopped. The lighted sign above the door said Dark Angel. It was a dive, pure and simple, an after hours haunt for those who to prefer to keep a low profile. Some call it sleazy, others call it home. Oliver had his own word for it but would not say it in front of Rita.

The three Postables got out of the car but stopped at the bottom step. A sign next to the door read, "Sunday School Teachers and Mensa Candidates Not Welcome".

"Rita," Oliver said. "Ignore the sign, we're going in there."

When Oliver pushed the door open, it made a deep grating sound like the stone door of a very old crypt being forced open. To say that the place was seedy would be like saying an apple orchard had fruit in it. Both were true but woefully short of the complete picture. The atmosphere of the dive was permeated by the odor of overused urinal cakes and decades of stale cigarette smoke steeped into the walls. There were two pool tables in the back, both unused, and half a dozen tables, all but one empty. Behind the bar was a large glass case holding turn of the century memorabilia. Three men lounging at the bar turned to stare at the door when it opened. One of the men grinned salaciously at Rita. The bartender, a very large unshaven man wearing a stained undershirt, lifted a shillelagh from the counter behind the bar and thumped the man on the head.

"Leave her alone Dobber, or I'll turn your throat inside out." The man's voice was deep and gravelly. "In fact, go sit somewhere." They left and took up residence at one of the tables. "Hello Norman," the bartender said.

The man is a pirate, Oliver thought. Has to be. "Nice shillelagh," he offered. "Is it real blackthorn?"

"You must be O'Toole," the bartender said and handed him the shillelagh. Unaccustomed to the weight, Oliver's hand slipped and the heavy end of the club made a loud, "thunk" as it impacted the bar. "Concussion material for sure," he added sheepishly.

"Oliver, Rita, this is my cousin Bluto." Norman smiled.

"Hello Mr. Bluto," Oliver said.

"No Mr. Just Bluto. Good to see you again Rita."

The brunette leaned over the bar to give the large man a hug. Her arms didn't fit. "When did you get the parrot?" she asked.

"About a year ago," the man smiled. "It's a rescue."

Oliver rolled his lips between his teeth to stop from laughing. Rita was nodding while her eyes scanned the collection of memorabilia behind the bar.

"What is it you're looking for?" Bluto asked.

"We are endeavoring to recover a historical artifact significant to literature," Oliver said.

Norman quietly laid a hand on Oliver's chest, shaking his head. Then he turned to Bluto. "We're looking for a very old Meerschaum," he said. "Rizo at John's Billiards said that you have one here. May we see it?"

The obnoxious man was back, standing next to Rita and rubbing up against her shoulder. "Hi," he grinned.

Very calmly, Rita removed a glass owl the size of an orange from her purse. She smiled sweetly at the man, then thumped the owl sharply on the back of the hand he had lying on the bar, striking the index finger at the first knuckle.

"Oh," Oliver gasped at the sound of something popping.

"Go away," Rita said to the man. He left, clamping the throbbing hand under an armpit. "Little trick my mother taught me," she grinned at Bluto.

"Nice one," he smiled. "I'll remember that. He turned to look at Norman. "I do have a Meerschaum," he said and pointed to the shelf behind the bar.

"May we see it?" Norman asked.

Bluto removed the object from the case and set it on the bar. "It is the correct design," Oliver said. "That's a good beginning." He looked to the man for approval, then picked it up and examined it carefully. Norman handed the Lead Postable his jeweler's loupe. "Thank you, Norman," Oliver said. Barely a minute later, "This is a Meerschaum but not THE Meerschaum we're looking for."

"How can you tell?" Rita asked.

"This is carved from briar wood, not the mineral sepiolite. Therefore, it is the wrong Meerschaum."

Oliver and Norman exchanged a glance. "Thanks Bluto," Norman said, then took his wife's shoulders and steered her towards the door. Outside, the troop stopped when Rita's phone rang.

She looked at caller I.D. and smiled. "It's Shane. Hello?" She listened for a few seconds, nodding her head, then gave Oliver a look he knew well. "She says you need to get a SmartPhone." He groaned. Again. "No," Rita said, frowning. "He did send the jet. It's supposed to be ready in the morning. We'll be in Seattle soon after." Then she grinned. "I am sure he'll call you tonight when he gets home. See you soon."


	3. Chapter 3

Seattle

January 15

The cab pulled to the curb and stopped. A moment later Shane stepped out and then leaned back in. "Wait here please. I'll only be five minutes at most." The driver nodded.

Shane exhaled slowly as she pulled the ankle length Peacoat tighter around her slender frame. "Oh Oliver," she whispered to the wonderfully warm memory haunting her thoughts. "You have spoiled me, Mr. O'Toole. I need your arms to hold me while I sleep." She thought about sighing again but made a growling sound deep in her throat instead.

The only thing she knew of Seattle was what her eyes told neighborhood was near the bottom of the Queen Anne Hill. She knew nothing of its history other than what was written on the streets and buildings for her to read. Nothing was new but every nook and cranny was filled with character. Some more than others. Caulic Antiquities and Heirlooms on Dundas Street was one of those. Forcefully pulling her thoughts away from Oliver's arms, she looked up at the building jutting into a cloudy sky. The structure was a hybrid of glass and steel combined with the old wooden original and all set on what looked like a very old stone foundation. "Could have been a castle once," she whispered to herself. Shane shook her head. "The two dissimilar styles do not complement each other. But I would wager that someone's ego was flattered."

What had intrigued her most about Caulic Antiquities and Heirlooms when she had done an internet search, was the complete lack of a digital footprint. She had found nothing, not even an address or phone number as if the building in front of her didn't really exist. That had been true for the web that existed in the light of day. She had entertained the idea of delving into the dark web. But. The but was Steve Marek and his band of minions who would recognize her own footprint almost at once. Something that Oliver did not want. And to be honest, neither did she. Hence the cab ride to Dundas Street.

The windowed door fo the building squeaked as it closed behind her, then her footsteps echoed hollowly as she approached what looked like a reception counter. She waited, listening for a sound, any sound that would offer evidence that the shop was inhabited. There was nothing. "Hello?" she tried, and listened to the word echo back to her from the opposite end of the long room.

The display room had a high ceiling and a hardwood floor dappled with dim sunlight spilling through the wide front windows. The space was cluttered with haphazard displays that left some items as shambolic as a flea market. "Or a yard sale," she muttered to herself. To one side were several tables, some hand carved, mixed with settees and couches. Next to those were high-backed chairs and two dozen clocks, some self-standing and some mantle clocks set on stands. The long interior wall was filled with paintings, French, Dutch, a few Masters – mostly minors – all little-known names and nothing collectible that she could see. Along the far wall were rows of sculpture, statues, carvings, bas relief plaques and embossed bronze plates.

Then, "Ah," Shane smiled, seeing a very large bookcase filled with a thousand titles. "I wonder if there is anything there that Oliver might like?" After running her finger across a dozen spines, she turned away. "I could find everyone of those on that book cart that sits outside the Post Office."

"Gottcha," Shane said and pulled her phone from her pocket when she saw the last display. It was partially hidden owing to the fact that it was turned sideways so that it could only be viewed from beside the bookcase. "Did someone do this on purpose?" she asked herself as the number she had dialed started ringing.

"Shane!" Rita's voice giggled out of the phone. Shane laughed at her friend's enthusiasm. "Do you want to talk to Oliver? I can holler and get him over here."

The "Yes!" was right on the tip of her tongue, but she cut it off with a groan. "No," she said. "Just hurry and get here."

Rita laughed. "I hear you. Doctor Dupin arrived in Denver this morning. We are flying out of here in a couple of hours and should see you tonight. Any luck finding the Meerschaum yet?"

"Besides the Bertram Liddy clue? Nothing. At the moment I am following a wishy-washy tip that Josiah came up with. A shop at the bottom of the Queen Anne Hill called Caulic's. Which is why I am calling."

"Wishy-washy?"

"Well, it's sort of like a chocolate covered lemon. Looks good outside but might be bitter inside."

Rita made a coughing sound. "O, out with it?"

"I am looking at a glass display case, locked, and I do mean locked, big locks. Inside are half a dozen Meerschaum pipes. How long does it take to lean how to pick a lock?"

Rita gasped. "If I was beside you I could teach you in half an hour."

"Pssstt." It was a sound of derision. "I don't have half an hour."

"Not to mention the six months for B&E," "Rita chided her.

"B&E?"

"Breaking and entering. I was listening when we went to the Dark Angel yesterday. Meerschaums common to the twentieth century are carved out of briar wood because it is easy to come by. We are looking for one much older than that. The one we want is carved from a silicate and will look, well, like stone."

Shane pulled a penlight from a pocket and aimed it through the glass door of the locked case. "Rats," she sighed. "These are all wood, no silicates here."

"Well, for what Dupin is paying us, it was worth the look."

"Rita? Can you do a favor for me?"

"Sure."

"Call Dale Travers and give her the name Caulic Antiquities and Heirlooms."

"Ok. Why?"

"Estate auctions do not generate the kind of income this place is suggesting. The export of antiquities is heavily controlled these days by almost all countries around the globe."

"You're thinking smuggler aren't you?"

"I am. Perhaps Dale can contact her friends at the FBI and drop a name?"

Rita laughed.

The sound of footsteps approaching spooked Shane and she dropped the penlight back in its pocket. "I gotta go. Company is coming and I don't want to explain anything. Give my husband a hug for me. Bye."

"Bye –," was all she heard as she dropped the phone in after the penlight.

A few seconds later she was slamming the door of the cab shut behind her. "Ooff," she gasped from exertion.

"Where to now?" the cabbie asked.

"Anywhere with coffee."

"Lady, this is Seattle. Everywhere has coffee."

"Just drive," Shane said, looking through the back window of the cab and seeing two very large men come out of the building she had just vacated. Both were staring at her as the cab pulled away. Shane tuned back to the driver. "Say, do they have coffee carts in Seattle?"

The man laughed. "My favorite is just a few blocks this way."

"Onward, and hurry," Shane grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

Denver

January 15

Rita's phone rang, the sound as sharp as a gunshot inside the car. Oliver's head snapped around as she looked at the offending technology. Then he smiled when she nodded excitedly and answered the thing. "Hi Shane. Yes, he is right here. Wait one."

The house in front of the parked Jaguar was early Americana and stood proud. Three stories surrounded by the still dead revenants of elm and aspen denuded by winter. Stone steps led up to a wide oak door set within a porch accented by carved woodwork. Wide windows on the ground floor showed lacy curtains that the flyer said had been hung by the home's enigmatic owner. Curved dormers with more woodwork accentuated the second floor and gave hints of bedrooms inside. All of the trim and woodwork had been painted the rusty ocher popular with the citizens of Denver, a color that was not flattering in the dead of winter.

Oliver took the phone from Rita and stepped out of the car. The wind greeted him with pure malice, flinging what felt like daggers of ice into his face. He squinted and put his face down and pulled up the collar of his heavy overcoat with one hand. A sudden gust threatened to push him off his feet and felt like a blade was filleting flesh from exposed face and hands. He instantly regretted leaving the warmth of the car. Turning his back to the slicing wind, he jammed the hand deep into a pocket and laid Rita's phone against his ear. Knowing who was waiting, the stoic Postable sighed deeply, proof of his longing. "Shane?" he whispered softly, the husky tone of his voice also proof of his pining.

"You are such a brat," the sweetest voice he had ever heard whispered back to him. "So, do you miss me?"

"The chilling autumn, angry winter, change their wonted liveries; and the mazed world by their increase, now knows not which is which."

Shane laughed and the warmth of the sound was a delight to his heart. "Nice quote, but try just telling me with your own words, Mr. O'Toole."

"Six months of marriage and I had forgotten what the winter of the soul is truly like. It is so cold without you. Inside and out." He could hear the subtle increase of her breathing and smiled at the sound. He turned to make sure that Rita and Norman were still in the Jaguar. "The house feels empty with you gone. I sit at night and hold your pillow just because it smells like you."

"Oh Oliver," Shane exhaled slowly. "You are such a lovable dork. Did the jet arrive? Are you coming to Seattle soon?"

"The jet is here, we are all packed and fly out in less than two hours."

"Leave the pillow at home. That's just a suggestion."

He found that funny and laughed out loud. Which caused both Norman and Rita to stare at him through the windows of the car. "I intend to, Mrs. O'Toole."

"So, what is happening in Denver? Did you find the house that Josiah at Turn the Page suggested?"

"We are parked in front it. Haven't gone in yet. It has lots of character, I like it."

Shane laughed warmly. "You would. Be careful though, some say that the survivor from Lifeboat Number Six still haunts her home."

"I fear being without you, Shane. Apparitions don't trouble me. You know that."

"I do, love. I do. What are you waiting for? Go do a careful search of the home of the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Josiah said to pay attention to her desk if you can get close to it."

"I wish I could dance with you right now."

Shane laughed again, then sighed. The sound of her longing for him was loud and clear. "Oliver, focus and do what I say. Go search Mollly Brown's Museum, then catch that plane and come here to me."

"Yes, Mrs. O'Toole. I will get a man right on that."


	5. Chapter 5

Denver

January 15

"Rita," Oliver said over his shoulder. "Can you call Shane. I need to confer with her about this."

"Sure," Rita answered, pulling her phone out of a pocket. When Shane answered, she handed the phone to Oliver.

"Tell me you're at the airport and the jet is warmed up," she said after Oliver said "Hello".

"Not yet," the Postable said with a shake of his head. Then he had to find his ear again with the SmartPhone.

The caretakers of Molly Brown's estate had kindly given the Postables permission to search the house and he was sitting in front of a very old desk in what had been the woman's library. Next to it was a fireplace with ornate stone mantle and so much more that he had become befuddled. Oliver O'Toole did not object to antiques, but the last half hour had filled his mind to overflowing with salon chairs from the 19th century, stained glass lamps, hand glazed china, and all things baroque that the unsinkable Ms Brown had loved. But barely a minute after sitting at the old desk, all of the mental clutter had been erased.

The desk was almost large enough to play ping-pong on its top. It was a beautiful antique of carved mahogany that smelled faintly of rosemary. Oliver had noticed the brass inkwell at the rear of the desktop, and the feather quill lying beside it. Both had brought a smile of affection to his face. The center drawer of the piece had slid open at his touch, running as smooth as oil on glass and silent. Lying in the drawer had been a large leather-bound album with a battered old compass lying on top. The compass had a lid that opened like a pocket watch and had the initials "JB" etched into the back. The album had turned out to be a Journal that opened to a page near the center, held there by a elastic band stitched to the binding. It had been that single page that had prompted the call to Shane.

"It's not that I don't appreciate talking to you again so soon, love, but I would rather hold you tonight."

"Shane!" Oliver's tone cut through the banter and caught her attention.

"Ok," she said. "What have you got?"

"Your friend Josiah at _Turn the Page Books_? Can you describe him to me please?"

"I can do better than that," Shane's voice said. Suddenly Rita's phone beeped.

"Oh my," Oliver said.

"Let me," Rita said, taking the phone, knowing what Shane had done. She fiddled with the display for two seconds and handed the phone back. It was now showing a picture of a gray eyed, whiskered old man sitting at a rolltop desk. Just over his shoulder was a silver Siamese with startling blue eyes. Oliver frowned, then shuddered at the odd feeling that the eyes of that cat were watching him.

"Does that work better?" Shane's voice asked from the phone.

"Yes and no," Oliver said with a voice that wavered just a little.

"Oliver?" Shane's voice was sharp. "Are you alright?"

"I am, but I am working on a mental jigsaw puzzle at the moment. It seems that your friend Josiah is not all he seems to be. Or perhaps a great deal more."

"What do you mean?"

"How old do you think he is?"

"Oh," she hesitated. "Sixty ish, maybe more."

"Did you take this picture with your phone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Does Rita's phone take pictures too?"

"Yes. But it would be best if you let her do it."

Oliver handed the phone to Rita and then turned the leather bound journal to face her. In a matter of seconds, the picture had been taken and sent.

"Wait! What?" Shane gasped. "What is this? What am I looking at?"

"I am sitting at Molly Brown's desk and the journal I found in the center drawer is not hers. The picture Rita just sent you is an old photo inside that journal, of an oil portrait. Do you recognize the man?"

"Yes. It's Josiah."

"This journal and the compass that was sitting on top of it both belong to Josiah Bartlett."

"Josiah never did tell me his last name. Am I supposed to recognize the name Bartlett?"

Oliver laughed. "Well, I know how smart you are, so yes. But I'll let you off the hook for now. There's more. I opened one of the side drawers. It is filled with a collection of scrolls and very old envelopes collated into bundles held with ribbons. Ribbons, mind you. These are very old documents and letters. One of the bundles has five letters in it and is labeled, "Meerschaum". The letters are all in chronological order."

"I can hear a very large "but" in your voice."

"As much as my curiosity is piqued, I cannot open these letters. Postal integrity being what it is, I cannot violate these ribbons. Hence the mental jigsaw puzzle."

Shane groaned loudly. But she knew that her husband would not be swayed far enough to peak into even one of those letters. "What can you tell by looking at the outsides?"

"The letters are carefully arranged in chronological order with the oldest writer first."

"What do you mean oldest?"

"In order, the letters are addressed to Roger Bacon, Sir Hugh Dalrymple, James Bruce, and Matthew Forster Heddle."

"They are all Scots," Shane gasped. "Come to think of it, Josiah does have a bit of an accent."

"Shane," Oliver closed his eyes. "Those four names cover a several hundred years of history. Those men are entrepreneurs, explorers, men who opened up the world for future generations. One was even accused of being a Wizard. True Meerschaum is a product of Scotland and cannot be counterfeited. I believe that Molly Brown was tracking the same Meerschaum pipe we are looking for so that she could own it. The journal ends on the very next page. There is no more."

"Well what does the next page say?"

"I don't know. I don't read or speak Gaelic."

"Great," Shane groaned. "How ironic that an O'Toole and a McInerney are stymied by the language of Scots. Wait!" she added sharply. "You said there were five letters."

"I did indeed. The last letter is addressed to Josiah Bartlett.

"Oh, oh, oh," Rita said, bouncing on her feet. "I've got it. Josiah Bartlett is one of the fifty six signatories to the Declaration of Independence."

Shane dropped her phone and loud clunking sound came from Rita's speaker. "Sorry," her voice said a moment later. "I was startled. Oliver, this can't be."

"How old did you say Josiah was?" he asked.


	6. Chapter 6

Seattle

January 15

Late afternoon

Shane was staring out the window of the cab, waxing nostalgic for the congested traffic of afternoon in Denver. Waxing and fuming at the same time. Afternoon traffic in Seattle brought up memories of studying Dante and his Inferno, specifically the quote, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." "Hell is a pretty good word for this," she mumbled, then caught the driver watching her in the rearview mirror. "Is it always this bad?" she asked the man's reflection.

He grinned at her. "Worse, some days. This city is run by a herd of necrotic winebibbers who dream of being politicians. The rain doesn't help. If there was a way around this I would already be on it."

Shane laughed. "Points for word usage," she smiled. "Is driving cab a second job for you?"

The man gave her a very odd look. "Yes. But how could you know that?"

"I am married to a man who is obsessed with words. He loves them. Very few people actually use the word you just did. Even fewer know what it means. So what is it? Teacher? Writer? Someone fond of dictionaries?"

The driver laughed and nodded. "I teach night school at Highline CC. Are you a student at the University of Washington?"

"No," Shane grinned and held up her phone. "I am tracking down a clue."

"Ah," the driver smiled, then suddenly twisted the wheel and gunned the engine, throwing the cab into an open space in the line of traffic that was suddenly moving forward. "So you're a detective." It wasn't a question.

"That's one word for it, yes." She had tried to explain once what it meant to be a Postable. But the word had trapped her and she had been overwhelmed by questions about the difference between being Postable and being postal. She simply smiled at the driver and stopped talking.

She looked at her watch and then at the slow-moving traffic. Oliver's flight was already in the air and she wanted to be at the airport when he arrived. The fly in the sweet ointment of reunion was the text message that had mysteriously arrived on her phone just minutes after Oliver's call from the Brown House Museum. She had assumed, based on familiarity with Denver's traffic, that there was enough time to stop at the University and see what the text was about. "I hate the word assume," she mumbled quietly.

"Don't worry," the driver said. "We're only three or four minutes away now."

Shane nodded, wondering if he had heard her or was just gifted at reading expressions on the faces of his fares.

The good news was that the winter had relaxed its icy grip on the city about midday. The bad news was that a rain storm was responsible for the change. It was warmer. Barely, but the afternoon was soaking beneath a wet shroud that covered the western half of the state. Raindrops fell steadily, collecting into growing puddles on every exposed surface.

Shane grinned and made a sighing sound as the tires of the cab gently nudged the curb. The driver had courteously gotten as close as he could to the sidewalk. She looked up at the building as she got out of the cab.

The University of Washington Library was huge, very wide and several stories tall, with square pillars and columns filled with tall windows. Her first impression was of a cathedral not a library. It had a dozen steps leading up to the entrance. Between her and the steps was forty yards of wet bricked plaza. She pulled up the collar of her Peacoat, dropped her head into its protection and made a dash for the steps. Even knowing that it was impossible to move between the raindrops, she tried.

Inside the foyer, she stopped on a rubber floormat, removed the Peacoat and carefully shook out any lingering drops. Folding the coat over one arm, she stepped inside and approached a long bank of computers and selected one that was vacant. She pulled her phone and read the text message once more. _"the final problem – uofw library – go now"_.

An enigmatic message. An irritating challenge that made her smile at Josiah's motives. "What are you up to?" she asked the computer screen. When the screen didn't answer, she began typing to access the library's database. "What?" she gasped and took half a step back when the answer suddenly filled the screen.

 _"The Final Problem": short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle featuring detective Sherlock Holmes; first published under title, "The Adventure of the Final Problem" December 1893." There was a picture of the magazine cover that had printed the story, and then a picture of the cover of a book. "The Final Problem appears as part of a collection of short stories titled, "The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes."_

Shane used a pen chained to the counter to write down the location of the book in the Library's shelving system. She looked up at the open space that reached all the way to the ceiling four stories above. The numbered shelf was somewhere up there.

She checked her watch as she approached the shelf the computer said held the book. She still had time to find the book and still get to the airport before her friends arrived. The suspect volume was sitting exactly where it was supposed to be, but she stood staring instead of pulling it from the shelf.

"Why am I here?" she asked herself. "I would wager that Josiah has this same book in his collection. So why am I here?" The thought that followed was sudden and sharp, and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "Because the text didn't from Josiah," she mumbled, reaching for the book. "Someone else is involved in this case."

It was a very ordinary book, the title page and both inside covers were blank with no inscriptions. "Why am I here?" she asked again as she began to thumb quickly through the pages. Then, "Oh!" as the answer suddenly presented itself.

The sound of books being moved caused her to turn. Several books had been shifted on the shelf behind her and the shelf that butted against that leaving a four inch wide space at eye level. Staring at her out of that space was a pair of very dark eyes. Startled, she echoed the "Oh!" she'd just made. She was being watched. The watching eyes widened at being discovered, and then disappeared accompanied by the sound of scuffling feet.

Moving quickly, she reached the end of the shelf and peered around the corner where the owner of the eyes had been standing. There was no one there. Then came the sound of footsteps hurrying down the steps. Shane rushed to the railing and looked over the edge. A man with very broad shoulders covered by an overcoat was making a not-so-subtle dash for the entrance. Before she could even think about following, he was gone.

"Crap!" was a whispered offering to fate for the timing.

After returning to the book, she opened it and removed the postcard that had been left hidden in the pages. On its front was a tightly cropped photo of one of the arches of Stonehenge, looking between two of the sarsen stone pillars. She flipped the card. The cancelled postmark said that it had been mailed in Denver five days ago and arrived in Seattle three days later. Which meant it had arrived after she did and could have been waiting inside the book for the last forty eight hours. The card was addressed to Robert Frost c/o Clouseau Pawn and Bail Bond Service.

Shaking her head with frustration, she slipped the book back in its place and put the postcard in one of the Peacoat's inside pockets. "Perhaps Oliver, Norman and Rita can make something of this." Giving the book a parting glare, she started for the stairs and the airport she was now desperate to get to.


	7. Chapter 7

Seattle

January 15

Late afternoon, two time zones ahead of Denver

Shane knew it was cliché. A scene from countless movies and so predictable. Cliché. She knew it, but as soon as she saw Oliver's smiling face looking right at her and almost close enough to touch, she didn't care. The small crowd of waiting passengers disappeared from her mind and she was running to meet him. This was her other half, the husband she had not seen in a week.

When the Lead Postable from Denver's renowned Dead Letter Office, the man who had not suffered the cuff of one sleeve to be out of place in the last decade, a man proper to a fault, looked up and saw his wife's smiling face running towards him, he dropped his bag and committed the same audacious cliché.

Shane's heart leapt within when she saw the fastidious Oliver O'Toole running too. Then his arms were open, the place where she belonged, the place where longing met gratification. She would have completed the cliché by jumping and letting him catch her, but that would have wasted precious seconds. Besides, the cliché falls short without music. Then suddenly, their bodies were pressed together, their arms in concert clinging to the other. His lips found her ear and whispered. She groaned softly at his loving words. Dozens of people going to and from private jets streamed by on both sides of the couple completely oblivious to any presence but their own as their lips joined in love.

Rita nudged Norman. "Who knew those two were hiding such passion?" she shook her head.

"Yup," Norman grinned, clasping his wife's hand tightly. "That is what happens when the right raft finds the right river at the right time."

"What?" Rita asked, giving her mate a curious look.

Norman laughed. "It's a reference to a talk Oliver and I had once. Seems like very long ago now."

Rita leaned over and gave his ear a quick nibble. "I have never seen either of them so happy."

"About time too."

"Do you think we should pry them apart?"

Norman looked at his wife and grinned. "No."

"Come on, Norman. We need to get to our Hotel and relax. Shane texted me that we are having dinner with Barrie from the Seattle Museum tonight. I don't know about you, but I need to rest a bit and refresh before we do that," Rita said as they approached their friends.

Boeing Field just south of Seattle, known to many as Seattle International Airport, is the Pacific Northwest's base of operations for a half a hundred corporate and private charters daily, and removed from the very commercial SeaTac airport by many miles. Even as the four Potables were being reunited, the Cessna Citation that had brought Oliver, Rita and Norman to Seattle was being carefully towed and stowed in a private hangar at one side of the airport.

"Oliver?" Rita tapped his shoulder.

Shane started laughing as her lips separated from Oliver's. "That was fun."

"Dare I say emotionally extricating?" Oliver slipped an arm around Shane.

"No, but you can say redeeming."

"Where are we going?" Rita asked, tapping again. Shane was looking at Oliver as if the kissing fest might begin again. "Shane! Pay attention to me."

The blonde shook her head no. Oliver laughed. "We're being rude."

Shane turned to Rita and Norman. "I have a car waiting to take us to the Hotel. We have almost two hours to get ready for dinner with Mr. Barrie from the Museum. We will be meeting him at Spinasse on Capital Hill. It is small but rumored to be very good."

"Sounds Italian," Norman said.

"Would you prefer something spicier, like Mexican?"

Norman shook his head emphatically and said nothing.

"Is Barrie the benefactor who hired us?" Oliver asked.

"No," Shane said flatly. "So far, I have been unable to find out who is putting up the money for us to find the Meerschaum. Whoever they are, the are willing to spend it," she grinned. "Do you want to see the latest?" she asked as the four began walking toward the exit and the waiting car.

"Yes."

Shane handed him her phone with the text message she had received showing on the display. "the final problem – uofw library – go now". "How curious?" he said.

"What does it mean?" Rita asked.

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," Oliver said. "The Final Problem appears as part of a collection of short stories titled, "The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Norman said. "Well, that links the text message to the missing Meerschaum."

"Indeed it does," Oliver said,

"What did you find when you went to the library?" Rita asked. Shane pulled the postcard from the pocket of her Peacoat and handed it to her. "You found a Postcard?"

"I also found someone watching me," Shane nodded. "What's more, I don't think that text message came from Josiah."

"Why Stonehenge? What does it mean?"

"Unknown," Oliver said. "But it is a link to the five Scots on Molly Brown's list. And a tie to the mysterious Mister Barlett."

"That's weak," Shane said. "But we can accept it for now. Look at the address side," she added.

"Robert Frost c/o Clouseau Pawn and Bail Bond Service.

Oliver made an odd choking sound. "Someone is taunting us," he said dryly.

"Out with it," Shane said as she pointed to a hired limo waiting for the four of them.

"You hired a limo?" Oliver gasped.

"Nope. It showed up in the parking garage of the Hotel. The driver said he has been hired to pick you three up and take us to dinner."

"What do you mean?" Rita wanted to know. "Who is taunting us?"

"Robert Frost," Oliver answered. "His two most oft remembered poems are _The Road Not Taken_ , sometimes referred to as _The Road Less Traveled_ , and _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_. The often quoted line from the latter is, _"miles to go before I sleep_ ". Ergo, someone is taunting us."

"Did you just use "ergo" in a sentence?" Shane turned to nibble at her husband's neck.

"I did." Then he shivered and laughed.

"Wait!" Norman stopped and waited for his friends to stop and turn. "What did you just say?"

"The two poems, Norman. Someone is telling us that we are haven't found the right path yet and we still have a long way to go. That is a blatant taunt."

Norman shrugged. "Not so blatant to me. I'm hungry."

"So," Rita said, handing the postcard back to Shane. "Tomorrow morning we begin again at Clouseau Pawn and Bail Bond Service."

"Sounds like a nice family place, doesn't it?" Shane asked.

"Can't be worse than the Dark Angel Tavern," Rita coughed.


End file.
